The silence that followed Raid's transformation was not peaceful—it was heavy, like a bomb suspended in the air, waiting to fall.
Xander stood frozen in the smoky warehouse. The last remnants of the shattered glyph still crackled along the edges of the floor, faint pulses of ghostlight fading into the cracked cement. The jaguar—no, Raid—towered before him, muscles coiled like steel cords beneath onyx fur. The ethereal jade tattoos glowing across his body pulsed in sync with something ancient and alien. Not just a magical beast, not just a pet—he was something more.
"Raid…?" Xander's voice came out uncertain, hesitant—as if saying the name might undo the fragile understanding he was forming.
Raid turned his massive head, emerald eyes piercing. But when he spoke, it wasn't with a growl.
"I remember now."
The voice echoed in Xander's mind—a telepathic resonance, deep and powerful, but laced with emotion. Regret. Memory.
"I remember fire. Chains. A woman with eyes like midnight. I remember… being broken."
Xander stepped closer, unease sparking through him. "What are you talking about? What are you?"
"I was called a Shadowborne before I was… caged. Hunted. Modified."
Modified.
The word rattled around in Xander's head like a loose screw in a collapsing machine.
Lyra, still recovering from her injuries, leaned heavily against a support beam. "Xander, we need to go. This place… it's not done collapsing."
But Xander wasn't ready to leave—not yet.
"Who did this to you, Raid?"
The beast lowered his gaze. "The same ones who started the Soul Harvest. The same ones who cursed this city with the Code Plague. But one of them led them all… A man named Ralph Thorne."
The name struck like a dagger. Cold, unfamiliar—but already becoming a ghost in Xander's path.
He didn't know Thorne—not yet. But he could feel the name threading its way into the edges of his fate.
---
Back at the Haven
Nightfall had buried Ironvale's skyline, what little could be seen above the surface. The air in the underground city shifted unnaturally with each passing hour—more sirens, more blackouts, more whispers of missing people.
In a converted sewer junction beneath the eastern slums, a flickering makeshift shelter had become their new safehouse—at least for now.
Xander sat on the edge of a cracked workbench, scrubbing dried blood from his jacket while Lyra patched a minor tear along her shoulder. Raid had reverted into his cat form, now curled up in a corner, breathing slowly, watching everything.
"What he said… about Thorne…" Xander finally broke the silence. "Do you think that was real? That he wasn't just… hallucinating?"
Lyra looked up, eyes tired but sharp. "If half of what he showed us is real, we're in more danger than we ever imagined. I've heard that name before, Xander. Once. When I was still in the Violet Quarters. Some of the smugglers whispered about a man who could bring people back from the dead—if you paid him in souls."
Xander frowned. "Resurrect the dead? That's impossible. That's necro-myth garbage."
"No. Not necro-myth. Code Alchemy." She tapped her temple. "Rewriting life using the same logic as programs. Merging spellwork and neural encoding. If Thorne is really doing that, it explains the Plague… and maybe the disappearances too."
Xander leaned back, letting the ceiling drip condensation onto his boots. "We need to learn more. If he's after soul energy… then that puts everyone in danger."
"I think he's already started. There's a rumor spreading in the upper districts. They're calling it the 'Digital Hollows.' People walking around like shells. Empty-eyed. Like they've been… scooped out."
"And you think that's connected?"
"I know it is."
---
Meanwhile… In the Heart of the Hollow Network
Location: Sector Null, Deep Grid Core
Ralph Thorne stood in the center of a cathedral-like chamber carved into the bedrock of Ironvale. Lights shimmered in calculated patterns across holographic stained-glass windows, illuminating him in coded fire.
He was alone, save for one figure—Victoria Slade, standing in the shadows, expression unreadable.
"You have what I need?" Thorne asked without turning.
Victoria stepped forward, removing a data crystal from a chained pouch at her side. "The memory splice was successful. He doesn't know I tampered with his interface."
Thorne turned now, slowly. His face was elegantly cruel—skin flawless, unmarred by age, but his eyes were ancient. Calculating.
He accepted the crystal with an almost reverent touch. "You've done well, Victoria. Your reward will be waiting once she's resurrected."
Victoria's mouth twitched. "You always say that."
Thorne tilted his head. "And I always mean it."
Behind him, a chamber door pulsed as machinery stirred—coffin-shaped pods humming, glowing. One was empty. The rest… sealed.
"She's close," he whispered, more to himself than anyone. "I can feel her soul pieces aligning. I just need one more key."
"Xander Croft," Victoria said.
Thorne smiled coldly. "Exactly."
---
Back in the Underground
Xander didn't sleep that night.
He sat with the old journal Lyra had recovered from a collapsed archive—one belonging to a pre-Fall codecaster named Arven Drell. It talked of leyline fractures, of soul conversion rituals, and of something called the "Circuit Veil."
His eyes scanned the page again:
> "…the Veil acts as both prison and passage. Those who walk between souls must never look back, or risk being devoured by what they leave behind."
Was that what he was becoming? A walker between the real and the rewritten?
Raid stirred beside him, lifting his feline head. "Your blood is changing, Xander."
"Because of the Echoforge?"
Raid nodded slowly. "Partly. But also… because your soul is waking up. You are not like others. You are not merely touched by the forgotten—you are born from it."
"What does that mean?"
But Raid didn't answer. Instead, his ears flicked.
Footsteps. Approaching fast.
A knock sounded at the outer bulkhead.
Lyra was already drawing her modified spellblade.
Xander crept to the door, unlocked the latch, and eased it open.
A boy stood there—ragged, out of breath, eyes wild with panic.
He couldn't have been older than fourteen. Dirt covered his face, and blood marked his knuckles.
"They're coming," he gasped. "The Hollows. They—they're in the sewers."
Before Xander could question him, the sound hit them all.
A low groaning hiss—like static and wet circuitry, crawling up the pipes.
Lyra stepped beside him, jaw tight.
Raid had already shifted—eyes glowing, claws extended.
"I hope you're ready," Xander said quietly.
Lyra nodded. "Always."
The walls of their hideout trembled, and from behind the rusted bulkhead, shadowed figures with flickering eyes began to claw and scrape.
Their haven… was no longer safe.